


Marry Me

by affluent_absolution



Series: Marry Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fluff, I don't know where this is going really, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mary broke up with John after Sherlock came back, Snogging, Wedding, like a long time after TRF, post-reich, probably going to be a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Marry me."<br/>"Sorry, what?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marry Me.

It was Sunday night, a bit after nine, violin music drifting through the flat, when Sherlock spoke. The violin paused a beat, just long enough for Sherlock to speak. 

"Marry me." The violin continued. 

"Sorry?" 

"Marry me." The violin quieted somewhat, but the bow continued to slide across the strings while Sherlock's eyes followed the snow drifting past the window. It was late in the year for snow; nearly March-- global warming at work. 

"Yeah, heard that part. Explain why you said it." Sherlock heard John lean forward from his chair, place his book on the table, and turn to stare at Sherlock's back. 

"It makes sense, John. We share a flat, you've yet to keep a girlfriend past two dates--" 

"Mary--" 

" _After_ I returned, John. I die and suddenly you can keep a date. Seems a bit suspicious to me. And, in fact, when I came back, she broke up with you as well." He stopped, waited for John to day something. But John was silent, so Sherlock continued. 

"We partake in many dangerous situations frequently; if one of us were to wind up in the hospital it would be of utmost importance for us to make medical decisions for each other. Mycroft can only do so much." 

John paused for a second before replying, "That's still no reason to get married." 

"Then what would be?" Sherlock lifted the bow from the violin and turned to look at John. 

"People get married for-- for love, Sherlock. People get married because they love each other, not for medical benefits." 

"Does our relationship not have love?" 

"No-- I-- it's too late for this. I'm going to bed." 

"It's barely half nine." 

"Yes, I know that, but I'm not going to sleep this instant, am I? Just-- we'll discuss this in the morning, okay?" Sherlock bit back a caustic remark and instead said, 

"Okay." Sherlock listened as John took slow steps up the stairs and then resumed playing. 

-

John brushed his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection. His eyes trailed across each line on his face, the puffy bags, remnants of his spotty sleep schedule from the most recent case. He was tired. And yet. . . he couldn't stand the idea of leaving Baker Street, couldn't stand the idea of leaving Sherlock, or having Sherlock leave him. Again. He was tired, and yet he still got the same rush each time, for each case, each chase. He loved the way adrenaline drained from his bloodstream after a case, loved being too exhausted to move once the adrenaline was gone. He loved the expression of joy on Sherlock's face, loved. . . 

Bloody hell, he loved Sherlock Holmes. 

He changed and slid into bed, turning the sentence over and over in his head. He wondered when it had happened, or why he hadn't noticed. He wondered how it had been so gradual, the growth of affection for this man, that he hadn't noticed. Or perhaps it hadn't been so gradual, and he had just been so caught up in the details that he hadn't realized it. But either way, he was in love, and now that he knew it was impossible to get the idea out of his head. 

He lay awake for several hours after coming to this conclusion, mulling ever aspect of his relationship with Sherlock. The electric whir of the side table's lamp blurred into background noise, as did the soft yellow glow emanating from its lone bulb, as John's mind delved further and further into the intricate topic he had decided to undertake. It was like a coral reef, complex and bright and beautiful, but also dangerous and sharp, holding hidden threats at each turn. But unlike reefs, which dwelled in clear, warm, and shallow waters, his and Sherlock's relationship dove into something akin to a deep-ocean trench, bright and simple at the top, but the deeper one went, the more pressure was felt from all sides, the darker it got, and the more sunlight disappeared. And desolate as it seemed, it wasn't, not at all. 

John Watson did nothing halfway. Not work, and especially not love. He was wholly invested the second he made a conscious realization of his love for Sherlock. So it did not surprise him in the least when he turned off his lamp, slipped between the covers, and felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and pull Sherlock's being to him. But the other half of the bed was empty and cold, so John sufficed with laying sideways and placing an arm over the chilled spot on the mattress. 

-

Sherlock loved John. He had for a while. But unlike what John was likely doing this instant, Sherlock felt no need to dissect it. It was simple enough to him. John was a light. And Sherlock was dark and angry and foreboding. When John had entered his life, he had become less pitch-black and more grey in places, more open to things-- things like love. He had felt no need, no real need, for drugs after he had met John. John was peace, kindness, home. His very presence quelled the chaos that was Sherlock more than he knew. And Sherlock was infinitely grateful. 

So Sherlock need not dissect it. No questions entered his mind for once. He was content with the fact; he didn't need to know when or how or why. He was fine. 

He had picked up the bow long ago to continue playing, just after John had gone upstairs. Now he continued to let notes dance across the stings into the early hours of the morning, torturing his mind with daydreams of what it might be like if John said yes, because he was fine. 

Apart from the overwhelming longing he felt all hours of the day, of course. Other than that he was absolutely fine.


	2. The Tables Have Turned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John had been talking himself into the idea, Sherlock was busy talking himself out of it.

"Yes." That's all he had to say. John paced across his bedroom, his slippers padding softly across the floor. "Yes," he whispered to himself. That's all he had to say, one _word_ , one _syllable_ , three _measly letters_. That was all.  
  
He walked to the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and came to an abrupt realization.  
  
He was about to get engaged to a man.  
  
And he was okay with it. Not just okay. Glad about it.  
  
So he started down the stairs.  
  
-  
  
Sherlock had put his violin down at half one in the morning. He tugged a hand through his curls, tried to erase ridiculous visions of kissing John in various situations from his mind. He should be focusing on something else. Something practical. Focusing on anything even _remotely_  practical would be better than imagining things that wouldn't come true. John wouldn't marry him. It was a ridiculous proposal. Everything about the idea had been ridiculous. He didn't know why he had thought to try in the first place. John was adamantly heterosexual. He would never want to marry him, or even be in a relationship with him, at that.  
  
He scrubbed both hands through his hair and sat down on the sofa. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his fingers together on the back of his neck. His head hung down, examining the carpet in the dim light filtering through the window, dark curls springing themselves into his vision, brushing his forehead. He was barely useful as a flatmate, what kind of husband would he make? What about children, retiring, domesticity? Sherlock sighed, his spine curving farther, curling in on himself. He hadn't thought this through at all. Beyond the actual reasons he had presented, he offered John nothing real, nothing substantial.   
  
Sherlock flipped on his side and pulled his robe around him. He wasn't tired and wouldn't be able to sleep. But somehow, he didn't want to move, either. He pressed closer to the back of the couch and pulled his knees up to his chest.  
  
 _Christ, he'd messed up awfully, hadn't he?_  
  
Several hours of self-loathing later, a few weak beams of sunlight cast small circles of yellow on the floor. John would be up soon. He stood and examined his appearance in the hall mirror. His vision flicked to the smallest bit of red highlighting the gathering bags under his eyes. His mouth was dry and his lips felt chapped. But even after drinking a full glass of water, his mouth was no less dry after a minute and his lips no less chapped. He took up an agitated gait across the floor and then grabbed his violin after a second. He didn't play, just held it, meaning to play, meaning to sit down, meaning to make tea.  
  
But he didn't.  
  
-  
  
John reached the bottom of the stairs and stood for a moment, watching. Sherlock was pacing anxiously back and forth across the floor, his violin clutched in one hand and the bow in the other. His hair was rumpled, his eyes tired and darting. John smiled a little. He shouldn't, really, but Sherlock looked so anxious, so worried. It was almost cute.  
  
He took a cautious step forward and Sherlock's head jerked up and he locked eyes with John. But just as quickly Sherlock looked away and started stammering out something.  
  
"Stupid-- it was stupid, John, sorry, I don't know what I--"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Sherlock broke off mid-stream and stared at him. "Sorry?"  
  
"I said yes. Yes, I'll. . . marry you."  
  
"Oh." A flash of confusion flickered across Sherlock's face. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Of course I'm sure." John smiled a smile that he hoped was reassuring.  
  
"But last night-- last night you said that people get married for love."  
  
"And today I said yes. What do you deduce from that?" John smirked and blew past a stunned Sherlock into the kitchen. "Tea?"  
  
"I--" He whirled to look at John, who was in fact filling the kettle. A small smile perked up the corner of John's lips.  
  
-  
  
John smiled to himself as water sped into the kettle. That had gone well. Hadn't it? Sherlock had been so stunned. Unless-- had he spent last night talking himself down? No, he couldn't have. Shit. What if while John had been coming to an extremely important resolution, Sherlock had talked himself out of it with bullshit reasoning? He glanced at Sherlock. His mouth was open slightly, eyes slightly wider than normal, eyebrows knit together. He was thinking.  
  
Shit, he had, hadn't he?  
  
-  
  
After a long time, a very long time, of staring at John and trying in vain to jump-start his mind into a thought process, Sherlock placed his violin and bow on the stand and sat quietly at the table. He had recently cleared it of experiments so for once the surface was completely visible, down to the long scratch from that case that seemed so many years ago. He steepled his fingers under his chin and focused on a spot on the wall-- a spidery crack, barely visible unless someone was looking for it.  
  
John scuffled around the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawing out biscuits, clinking plates on the counter, generally creating white noise to avoid speech. The kettle screamed for his attention and he tended to it, pouring the steaming water into cups and setting the tea bags inside meticulously. Once nothing more could be done, he picked up the dishes and set them on the table. He sat and glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at something.  
  
"You do still want to get married, right?" he asked, and then bit into a biscuit to keep his mouth from doing more damage than it had already.  
  
"Are you aware of what kind of relationship this would be?" Sherlock unfolded his fingers and sipped at his tea, avoiding any and all eye contact. Even if he refused to engage directly, his words carried a sharp tone of warning and urgency.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But are you _really_  aware, John? Are you aware of the repercussions and extreme differences between marrying me and marrying a woman?"  
  
"I'm aware that you're being a bloody idiot because I just told you that I love you and you're refusing to acknowledge it. I can't see too many repercussions from marrying someone that I love, and if you see them, then we'll work through it together. I spent four hours last night realizing I'm hopelessly in love with you while you talked yourself out of the best idea you've ever had. And I can't go back; I'm not like you. So now I'm asking you, Sherlock. Will you marry me?"  
  
"I-- John--"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?"  
  
"I-- yes."  
  
John grinned and swallowed the rest of his tea. He put the mug in the sink and snuck a glance at the bewildered man still sitting. John vacated the kitchen and drove a path behind Sherlock's chair into the sitting room. Passing Sherlock's chair, an idea entered John's mind, and on a whim, he obeyed it. He dipped his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's temple. Sherlock immediately started and turned to stare at him, startled.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"We _are_  getting married," John retorted. "Had to happen sometime."

 


	3. Love (n)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rambles about love.

That had not gone according to plan. Not at all. There had been a plan. He was supposed to have apologized for the stupid idea, John was supposed to have agreed, and everything was supposed to have gone back to the way it was supposed to be.  
  
John had surprised him. Again.  
  
Love was a strong word. Its actual meaning is 'an intense feeling of deep affection' or 'a deep romantic or sexual attraction'. The definitions themselves were ambiguous and bent to personal interpretation. The emotion, however, was incredibly dangerous. It warped people's sense of reason, filled their minds with pointless wants. It was Sherlock's least favorite emotion, the enemy of his pristine, cut-and-dried mind, and yet, here he was, with John. His John.  
  
Sherlock hadn't loved much in his life. He loved science. He loved facts. He loved reason. He did _not_ love people. People were unpredictable, slow, stupid. And people hated him just as much as he hated them. They hated how he talked, they hated what he said when he talked, they hated that he talked. They hated his appearance, his lack of social graces, the condescending way he looked at and spoke to everyone. They hated him unless he had just solved a murder.  
  
But he was getting married. And not only getting married, but getting married to the love of his life. He had never thought this would happen. He never thought that someone could love him back. Requited love was not something he was familiar with. Girls who thought he was 'mysterious' back at uni and a brief stint with a drug dealer were the full extent of his experience. He'd only been kissed a few times; only had sex once-- and he'd rather not think about that ever again. But. . . he found himself here, against all odds. Drug-free, respected in the eyes of some, hated in the eyes of fewer than he had ever imagined. And his hopeless love was currently requited. Currently.  
  
He was getting married to John. Beautiful, kind, peaceful, wonderful John. And John had kissed him, had opened a door. A door that led to an endless possibility of touches and kisses and cuddles. (Cuddles-- such a juvenile word. But so alluring as well.) That one kiss had put a potential end to dark nights of longing, to exercises in self-control every time John spoke, moved, breathed. Potentially, he could touch John whenever, hold his hand, kiss him ,  _hold_  him . Maybe this whole marriage thing wasn't too bad after all.

  
But puppy love has a tendency to wear off and Sherlock was prepared for the inevitable.  
  
-  
  
John was getting married. To Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock Holmes was going to marry him. Dark-curls-and-ivory-skin Sherlock Holmes. Coat-collars-and-cheekbones Sherlock Holmes. Logic-and-reason Sherlock Holmes. Married-to-my-work Sherlock Holmes (he was going to have to remember that one for later). Love-is-a-chemical-defect Sherlock Holmes was marrying _him._  
  
He grinned to himself as he dressed. Maybe he was overthinking it, but to him it just seemed impossible. He supposed it would for a while.  
  
Wasn't he supposed to have a sexuality crisis or something? He had always thought he would end up with a woman. But no woman could hold a candle to Sherlock, his ethereal, perfect Sherlock.  
  
He headed down the stairs. Sherlock was still staring into his mug of tea.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Hm?" The man didn't look up.  
  
"I've got a shift at the surgery."  
  
"Alright."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"Just asking." John shot him a dubious look before picking up his jacket from the chair and putting it on.  
  
-  
  
Now was his chance to test his theory. He could kiss John goodbye. He was going to. John was putting on his coat.  
  
 _Now._  
  
Sherlock stood and crossed the flat to John in a few long strides. John had just finished adjusting his collar and looked up, startled. Sherlock cupped John's face gently and pressed a short kiss to John's lips. And it was wonderful.  
  
He held there, kept pressure, for just a few seconds, before gingerly pulling away and opening his eyes. John's steel blue ones stared back at him, bewildered and warm. Sherlock smiled a little.  
  
"Alright?"  
  
"You have no idea how much I wish I wasn't covering Sarah's shift at the surgery today."  
  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
  
"Of course it's a yes." John kissed Sherlock again, quickly, since they were still so close together, before shooting him a grin and calling, "See you tonight, love!"


	4. Snogging, Plain And Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snogging on the couch, and then cuddling. Fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this chapter up while I was at camp, so all mistakes may be attributed to a bumpy bus ride.

The door swung inward on its hinges, allowing John in quicker than it ever had before-- the lock for once had not been finicky, hadn't needed the precise jiggle-and-push it usually did. It was like the universe wanted this to happen. A small smile had lingered on John's face all day, but he prided himself in not being the one to be distracted with his personal life in front of patients, so his composure was professional as always. 

But he wasn't at work now, and that was a blessing all its own. Sherlock sprung up from where he had been seated in front of his microscope, eyes bright.  
  
"John!" In response, John crossed the room in a few strides and crushed his mouth to Sherlock's. His hands cupped the man's face, fingers entwined in the curls at the nape of his neck. It was wonderful and furious and breathtaking. Sherlock's elegant hands on his hips, gasping for breath and diving back so quickly. And Sherlock's hands had a tendency to _roam_ , sliding up and down his back, over his shoulders, curling around his neck and repeating the whole process. John pressed closer to Sherlock, but there wasn't much space between them to begin with.   
  
"Couch," John murmured. Sherlock nodded and directed them to the couch. He sat but was quickly knocked onto his back, and didn't much mind. Flat on his back, Sherlock leaned up as John swung a leg over him, effectively straddling the man. He leaned down with as much force, hands braced on either side of Sherlock's head. The detective's hands were free to move, though, and move they did. Up and down his torso, repeatedly, methodically: like his hands were mapping out John's back and recording it's geography, the mountain range of his spine, the plateaus of his shoulders, the small dip of a valley at the base of his spine. That made his muscles the tectonic plates, John supposed.  
  
-  
  
Every second of this moment was being filed away in Sherlock's mind palace. The smooth, strong movements as John's back rose and dipped, the way his hands trembled just slightly against the couch. And the kiss-- it was so detailed, almost impossible to dissect each part and analyze it at the same time-- humans only had seven memory registers, after all. His breathing was labored, he knew that. When John pulled up he gulped down large lung-fulls of air, of John's air, because they were so close that each breath _smelled_ of John, _tasted_ of him, and it was wonderful. John's breath, he could feel against his face for these seconds-- hot and sweet, a sharp gust of an exhale before John drank in more so he could kiss Sherlock again. And speaking of things that were very hot, John gave off _quite_ a lot of body heat and Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying it. One's body heat was a slight haze, an unseen aura surrounding their body, and Sherlock was pressed right up into John's. Sherlock himself barely gave off any body heat; usually his hands and feet were frigid unless he was wrapped in the Belstaff. But now his hands were warm and slightly clammy, and Sherlock didn't mind one bit.  
  
Moving off the tangent of body heat, Sherlock focussed back in on the kiss itself. It had slowed considerably since John had initiated it, had moved from a fervored, frantic smash of lips and click of teeth to a more languid and sentimental series of long presses and short pecks around his mouth, and in return around John's. It was wonderful, truly; when John led the kiss there was something in the way John's chest moved, like he was relieved, happy even. When John led the kiss it was incredibly slow, his tongue drifting over Sherlock's and applying pressure just right to make Sherlock whimper a bit. But when Sherlock led the kiss, it was a series of short kisses, like Morse code. Several on the lips, and then a few around and on either side. It gave them both a break to breathe without actually stopping. God, he wished they could stay like this forever.  
  
 _"Sentiment, John,"_ he would say. _"Sentiment is dangerous. It makes people do stupid things."_ Stupid things, like snogging John on the couch instead of observing mitosis in various cells various periods of time from and after death. Those cells were expiring, but Sherlock couldn't find it in him to stop John.  
  
-  
  
Sherlock's lips were amazing. John hadn't thought that about anyone's lips before, but Sherlock's really were gorgeous. Full and soft as his thousand-thread-count sheets, stained a perfect rouge pink. Sherlock was splayed out below him, whimpering slightly, squirming just a tad with every touch, so John couldn't help but stare. Pink splotches marred his usually starkly pale complexion. His eyes were closed but fluttered and opened every so often when John was taking too long between kisses. His head was tilted up so John could reach it better, and his curls were thrown back under his head. They reminded him of Ariel, that Disney princess, when she laid down with all her hair around her. That was exactly what Sherlock's hair looked like, but quite a bit darker and curlier.  
  
John almost landed another kiss on Sherlock's lips, but stuttered and backed up. His neck was right there, and if he was there, well...  
  
John pressed his lips lightly to Sherlock's pulse point, trailing down to his clavicle, light and affectionate. He reached the collar and nipped lightly with his teeth. Sherlock's breath caught.  
  
"John, I-- I don't-- not yet."  
  
"That's alright, love." John retreated and placed another kiss on Sherlock's cheekbone. "Do you want to watch telly?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
"Okay. You find something and I'll make tea." He swung his leg back over and landed lightly on the floor. He smiled for a brief second before treading into the kitchen and starting the kettle.  
  
Sherlock picked up the remote and flipped through channels. Boring, boring, dull, awful-- there. Barely interesting, but he wouldn't much be paying attention. He sat back and waited for John to return.  
  
John set the two cups on the table and settled back into the cushions, throwing Sherlock a glance. He seemed to be watching, but John knew better. Just as he suspected, Sherlock shifted to lean his head on John's shoulder and tilt into him. John just smiled and raised a hand to stroke at Sherlock's curls.  
  
-  
  
John's body was warm and solid under Sherlock's touch. Real-feeling. Very, very, real. And when a calloused doctor's hand began to card through his curls, it was hard to hold back a whimper. The show blurred in his eyes as he craned further into John's touch.  
  
For hours they sat like that, the telly flicking from show to show, John's steady fingers drifting through Sherlock's wild curls, calm and relaxed and feeling uncannily like _home_.  
  
"It's getting late." John's statement held a long list of implied questions, all of which made Sherlock nervous.  
  
"Are we to. . . share a bed?" he tried, hoping the answer would echo his own thoughts.  
  
"If you want, love."  
  
"Then whose?"  
  
John paused a moment, pondering the possible pros and cons of each bedroom.  
  
"Yours, I think. More convenient."  
  
Sherlock nodded, not questioning the second half for the time being. "Should you get a pillow from your own, or will mine suffice?"  
  
"I'll get one of my own, if that's alright."  
  
"Of course." A long pause, both staring at the cheesy late-night program. "Shall we, then?"  
  
It was John's turn to nod. He stood and dashed off to his room while Sherlock clicked the tea off and set the dishes in the sink. Then he strode to his bathroom-- _their_ bathroom-- and brushed his teeth, changed, and settled in to bed in record time.   
  
-  
  
John came in not long after, set his pillow down on the empty side of the bed, and threw the covers up and over himself in a fluid motion. He smiled at Sherlock's curled form under the sheets and settled next to it, the lights having been turned off already. They were facing each other, both on their respective side. Only glimmers of moonlight danced through the gapped blinds, enacting plays across the planes of Sherlock's slim figure. He eventually uncurled somewhat and flashed his eyes at John as his feet curled around John's shins. John was taken aback for a second, taking in the sight before him. The man was a stark contrast of ebony and ivory, with two divergent aquamarine patches for his eyes; an indented oval of rose marked his mouth. He was gorgeous.  
  
John brushed his lips against Sherlock's forehead just once and draped an arm over his angular side. _This_ was how to sleep.   
  
-  
  
And sleep they did, for longer than Sherlock had in months.

 


End file.
